


Dissolution

by aishahiwatari



Series: Humanity [6]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottoming from the Top, Couch Sex, Dirty Talk, Drooling, Episode: s01e06 The Innocents, M/M, Minimal Lube, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Risk of Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Rough Sex, Sex in a Communal Area, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-30 06:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20442347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: Butcher lets them in to the safe house and Hughie’s already thinking about what he wants to do and have done to him, is caught off-guard when Butcher shoves him back against the door and presses his fingers to Hughie’s lips, hushing him when he opens his mouth to instinctively object.“Everyone’s out,” he says after a moment, and Hughie’s breath hitches at the promise in that tone. He can feel gun callouses against his skin. “We could have some fun, right here.”





	Dissolution

**Author's Note:**

> Just so y'all know, nobody does actually walk in on them.

After an eventful support meeting that was worse -but probably only marginally- than any of the ones Hughie’s been to before, Butcher takes him to a park bench, sits him down, and tells him what happened to his wife.

“Explains a lot,” Hughie says, when they’ve been sat in silence for a while, after. When the initial shock and horror have faded. And he means it, too; clearly Butcher's had something terrible happen to make him the way he is. It’s- good to feel like Hughie’s being trusted with the reason. And to know that he’s not alone. He just wishes he could shake the feeling that there’s more he needs to know.

“Does it.”

“Explains the bruises you left on my arms.” He rubs at them, even though the marks are long gone, feels the ghost of pain there, sees the guilt in Butcher’s eyes and wants to believe it’s real. He has to assume it is, because to question it is to doubt everything he’s done since he started feeling human again. “I’m sorry, you must have been- going through a lot.”

“I don’t know what I would have done if he’d hurt you.”

Butcher puts his head in his hands, but even Hughie knows that’s got far more to do with Butcher’s feelings towards Homelander than any he might have developed for Hughie.

“Kind of the same thing you’re doing now?” Hughie can’t imagine him doing anything else. He’s seen glimpses of what that man might be like, the man Butcher used to be, but he’s only ever known this one. He’s only ever wanted this one. And the tiny smile he earns, then, makes his heart squeeze traitorously.

“Only it wouldn’t be quite as much fun.”

It’s a reasonable, light-hearted note to leave it on. Hughie thinks they’re done. It’s kind of how they do things, exposing tiny fractions of themselves at a time and then deflecting with aggressive humour until they can stand to carry on.

But Butcher has more to say. “At first I sort of hoped it would bring her back. Sod’s law, you know. That moment where you think- wow, I hope she doesn’t walk through the door while I’m- fucking some hot twink over a sink. It stopped being that, but- it never stopped feeling good. For those few moments.”

“It makes it all go away.”

“For a bit.”

Hughie knows exactly what he means. But he also didn’t miss that reference in there, to what they’ve been doing, recently. “You think I’m hot?”

Butcher’s thoughtful expression turns incredulous. “You think you’re a twink?”

“I work with what I got.”

-

The place is empty when they get back, not that Hughie is particularly in any condition to notice. It’s been a difficult, emotional day and he and Butcher are both practically vibrating with tension on the journey back, neither of them inclined towards touching in public, where they can be seen, but wanting.

Butcher lets them in and Hughie’s already thinking about what he wants to do and have done to him, is caught off-guard when Butcher shoves him back against the door and presses his fingers to Hughie’s lips, hushing him when he opens his mouth to instinctively object.

“Everyone’s out,” he says after a moment, and Hughie’s breath hitches at the promise in that tone. He can feel gun callouses against his skin. “We could have some fun, right here.”

Hughie’s breathing comes faster. Fingertips trail across his cheek and along his jaw, then down until Butcher settles his hand around Hughie’s throat, those same callouses counting the ever-increasing rate at which his heart pounds, helplessly.

“You like that idea?” Butcher asks him, as though he could possibly need to. He likes to hear Hughie admit what he wants, the more humiliating and degrading the better, and he’ll persist until it happens, stares into his eyes and watches his resistance bleed away with every single word. “You want me to fuck you right here on the floor, so you’d be the first thing they saw when they walked in? Or I could bend you over the table so they see how wide you spread yourself for me, see that you want my cock so bad you can’t even wait ‘til we get into your room.”

Hughie knows that he’s safe. He knows that non-consensual voyeurism is on the list of things Butcher would never inflict on anyone. There’s no chance that anyone will walk in on them and see him. His breath still escapes him in a tremulous little gasp at the hint of possibility and it makes Butcher laugh, low and dark, lean in to kiss his cheek.

“I love how dirty you are, Hughie. Nobody knows, do they? They all think you’re sweet, such a nice boy. They’d never guess what you want me to do to you. And there are so many things, I can just feel it. So many little fantasies floating around in your head, so much that you want and can’t even imagine yet. But it’s alright. I’ve got you. I’ll give you what you need.”

Hughie feels impossibly warm and also shivers, and then the comforting weight of Butcher’s body pressing against his is gone and he’s left there with only the door to hold him up. Butcher strides into the room, assesses the space, shrugs off his coat and throws it over a chair, and then he takes a seat on one of the couches, leans back, spreads out, gets comfortable. He unbuttons his shirt, slowly, provocatively, lets the sides fall apart but doesn’t shrug the whole thing off, leaves it framing his chest.

Then he points to the spot on the floor between his splayed legs and looks at Hughie expectantly.

Hughie swallows with a sort of strangled whimpering sound. He’s not convinced he can stand up, realises with a rush that he doesn’t need to, sinks to his knees right where he is and crawls that same distance, instantly flattered and gratified by Butcher’s appreciative groan, his dark eyes not missing a single moment of it.

Hughie kneels between those legs, his knees already objecting to the floor, dares to run his hands up those gorgeous, hard thighs, frustratingly clad as they are in denim. He’s feeling pleasantly vulnerable, probably too trusting but can’t convince himself to see sense, leans in to press his lips to the bulge at the groin of Butcher’s jeans, opens his mouth to breathe hot, damp air against it and hums when Butcher’s fingers tangle in his hair.

He doesn’t care that they’re in view of anyone who might choose to walk through that door. He just wants, noses a little higher, ignores the pain as he drags Butcher’s zipper down with his teeth.

“Fuck, Hughie,” Butcher hisses through a clenched jaw, is unabashedly staring when Hughie glances up, before he begins to work on the button, too, inflexible denim refusing to part around it without a fight. Although Butcher doesn’t help, he pets him, smooths his hair back, scratches at the base of his scalp, murmurs soft words of encouragement until Hughie triumphs and can touch his lips to the steadily hardening shape through the thinner, more forgiving barrier of black briefs.

He can breathe in the scent there properly too, soap and laundry detergent and musk all washing over him so that he sighs, happily. It brings back memories, too, of the first time they did this, so similar and yet not at all the same. It feels like so long ago, back when Hughie had no clue about what motivated this man. He had barely known what motivated himself, had been lost and stumbling through life.

Butcher had been in control, then, but now he lets Hughie lose patience and ease his jeans down, pull his briefs with them, press soft, worshipful kisses to the underside of Butcher’s cock, just feeling the hot, satiny skin against his lips, the slightest suggestion of moisture at the tip that smears across his cheek.

“Oh, our sweet little Hughie’s got an oral fixation,” Butcher does murmur, though, with an air of delight. It’s his tone as much as the words, the casual implied ownership that all makes Hughie shiver, and Butcher sliding his thumb into Hughie’s mouth makes his eyes flutter shut as he lathes with his tongue and sucks.

“Just wanna be filled, don’t you?” Butcher’s low voice is soothing, like the weight on Hughie’s tongue. “You’ll take my cock however you can get it, won’t you?”

Hughie nods, dazedly. Whatever they’re doing, he wants more. It’s good, although it would be better if he could get out of his jeans. He squirms tellingly, and Butcher makes a soft sound of sympathy.

“You uncomfortable? Alright, come on. Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

Hughie’s shirt is pushed off his shoulders, his tee pulled over his head. He lets out a brief objection when Butcher’s thumb slips from between his lips, blinks a few times, is eased carefully to his feet so he can kick off his converse, so his jeans can be removed and thrown aside, too, socks lost somewhere in the tangle and followed by his briefs.

And then he’s naked. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t need to see the door, knows anybody who walked through would immediately see and know what they were up to. It would be humiliating.

Butcher beckons him closer with a crook of a finger, shakes his head when Hughie’s gaze darts down, pleadingly, to his cock. He wants it in his mouth so badly he’s salivating, has to swallow wetly.

“On my lap, Hughie. Now.”

Butcher’s legs are still spread wide so straddling them spreads Hughie’s further still. He’s pulled into a kiss with a hand cradling the back of his head, is allowed to touch as Butcher maps Hughie's mouth with his tongue, bites at his bottom lip, sucks until there has to be a bruise there and kisses that same swollen, heated spot. Butcher’s hair is damp at the nape of his neck and Hughie toys with it, vulnerable and exposed as he is, seeking those soothing sensations.

One of Butcher’s hands splays possessively over the small of his back. Hughie wants to see it there, doesn’t dare ask for a photograph, isn’t ready for that level of evidence to exist with the kind of life they lead, no matter how much he enjoys the thought of committing to memory the image of their contrasting sizes, the power imbalance, even the differing tones of their skin.

And then Butcher’s smiling too much to kiss him properly, and he’s shifting, and that hand leaves Hughie’s back to rummage in a pocket and procure a packet of lube, which Butcher holds up between two fingers for Hughie to see.

_Yes._ Hughie wants that.

Butcher’s smile only broadens as he reaches for one of Hughie’s wrists, pulls it from where it’s draped over his shoulder, pushes that packet into his hand. “Go on then.”

Oh. Hughie’s cock lurches as he takes that little sachet, not a generous amount by any means but- enough. If he doesn’t spill any. While he’s fingering himself open on Butcher’s lap. While anyone could walk through the door and see what they’re doing, what Butcher has the power to make him do because he wants it so badly.

He tears open the packet carefully, coats the first finger of one hand, wishes he didn’t have to glance at Butcher for a reassuring nod but is glad of it when warm hands rub over his thighs.

Less reassuring but undeniably encouraging are Butcher’s words. “Take your time. I’m sure they’ll all be gone a while longer.”

Hughie tries to glare, does a pitiful job of it judging by Butcher’s answering smirk and wink.

And then he reaches back and -fuck, when was the last time they did this? Too long ago- presses a slick finger inside of himself. He shudders at the combined sensations, being penetrated and having that tight, resistant heat wrapped around him, almost too much and still a little painful, just Butcher’s eyes and hands on him to keep him going until he can convince his body of how good it’s going to feel.

He can’t get deep at the awkward angle, but the knowledge of what he’s doing heightens every one of his reactions and he has to close his eyes and open his mouth to pant because it already feels like too much. It stings, and it burns, and it’s going to hurt, this time, when Butcher fucks him, and his hole clenches tightly around himself at the thought.

“Fucking hell, Hughie.”

Now, that helps. The open appreciation in that tone, the admiration in those eyes, when Hughie manages to open his own enough to see, the warm hands caressing his skin, smoothing up to his hips. Hughie smiles and he feels hot, is probably flushing pink all the way down his chest but Butcher just brushes the back of his knuckles against the underside of Hughie’s cock, lets him focus on the pleasure, on what’s driving him.

It’s not going to get that much easier, Hughie knows, and ever passing moment leaves them in greater danger of being seen. He eases his finger out, already feels wet and exposed even though he’s barely begun, gasps when Butcher’s hands spread over the cheeks of his ass and pull them apart, his eyes on Hughie’s face the whole time, watching for pain or any sort of objection or just savouring Hughie’s helpless, vulnerable arousal.

Two fingers, next. Hughie is trying to be sparing with the lube but that initial burn is heightened by the stretch Butcher’s putting him through and he needs it. With a little push, he fits them inside of himself, arches his back and hisses through his teeth instinctively, relaxes a little when Butcher brushes a soft kiss against his cheek, repeatedly loosens and tightens his grip on Hughie’s skin to coax him more open.

He still feels so fucking tight, like a vice wrapped around his fingers, thrusts as deeply as he can, feels the hot softness of his own insides and wishes it was Butcher touching him, entering him. Wishes he was ready for his cock, knows he has to get that far himself and then he’ll be rewarded but fuck, it’s hard.

His arm is cramping from the awkward angle but sparks of arousal are still shooting up his spine as the burn becomes a pleasant heat, as his fingers start to slide more easily through the loosening ring of muscle. When he adjusts his position, one elbow propped on the back of the couch, Butcher bites his throat, sucks and worries at the skin with his teeth until Hughie’s gasping, ready for more fingers and more lube but unwilling to make that stop, just yet. He pushes deeper, instead, whines impatiently when he can’t quite reach the spot that will make him see stars, shivers when it makes Butcher chuckle dangerously in his ear. 

“You want something, Hughie?”

Hughie keens. He cannot fucking believe Butcher is making him find words right now.

“Tell me,” Butcher urges, too, when he stays silent a moment too long.

“Just-“ Hughie pants, because fingers are digging in hard to the crease of his ass and his head is resting on his own arm and he can’t get any deeper, no matter how hard he tries. “More. I want more.”

“Thought you might.” Butcher nips at his earlobe, talks to him like he’s sharing a secret. He lifts his hands from Hughie’s ass, and then he holds one of them out where Hughie can see it. There’s only one possible thing he can want Hughie to give him, and it makes him falter. When he goes to hand the packet over, Butcher shakes his head, flexes his fingers in demonstration. “How many do you want?”

Hughie’s struck by how intensely he suddenly wants all of them, to be stretched impossibly wide over hours until he’s taking everything Butcher can possibly give him. This isn’t the time or place for that. With a shaking hand, he pours lube out over two of Butcher’s fingers, licks his lips absently as Butcher rubs them together to coat them but then looks at him expectantly for more.

There’s not much left in the packet. Hughie glances down at Butcher’s cock, hard and purple at the tip and just a little wet. He wants it inside him, and pain is one thing, tearing another.

“Use it all. Trust me.” Butcher’s tone is light, but his eyes are serious. He means it. And Hughie does, God fucking help him, he trusts this man who’s about to break him open and already has, who’s exposed parts of both of them that Hughie hadn’t even known to look for. He flattens the packet to empty it out, watches it drip onto Butcher’s long, capable fingers and then drops it on the couch.

He squeezes his eyes shut when Butcher reaches down between them, between Hughie’s legs and back, but the brush of a thumb across his bottom lip makes him start and the hand cradling his cheek is warm and comforting. He nuzzles into it, feels the gentle huff of Butcher’s amused, affectionate sound, has to see the deceptively soft expression that comes along with it.

He means to keep looking but nothing in the world could keep his eyes from rolling back in his head when Butcher presses a finger into him between Hughie’s own. He gasps with the sudden, intrusive pain of it, the stretch he’s not quite ready for, but he’s relaxed and trusting and it’s so fucking good.

It doesn’t even occur to him that he could pull his own fingers out, and he just lets his body move, easing back and forth instinctively, moaning when Butcher’s thumb presses into his mouth and he’s inside of Hughie at both ends but it’s still not enough. He sucks, swirls his tongue, presses forwards until the pressure is teasing at the edge of his gag reflex, his throat threatening to convulse with every shift of his body taking Butcher a little deeper.

He nearly screams at the addition of a fourth finger, opens his mouth to gasp and pant and drools embarrassingly down Butcher’s front, tries to swallow but finds his mouth held open, Butcher’s thumb between his teeth, his eyes intense and dark when Hughie dares to meet them, his cheeks hot. He whines, and Butcher smiles at him, kisses his forehead, twists the fingers that are buried deep in Hughie’s ass to make him keen and writhe and bear down because he wants more, he needs it now.

Except Butcher releases him and he gasps at the loss, closes his mouth to swallow desperately, has to be a mess, still has Butcher’s insistent caressing of his insides to deal with until he doesn’t, until his fingers are drawn out alongside Butcher’s and he feels wet and empty and open.

And then Butcher points to the floor between his spread legs.

He has to be joking, but Hughie’s bereft, pleading expression earns him nothing but a repeat of the gesture. With a whimper, he goes where he’s bid, crawling down and settling on his knees, feeling cold and pressing close to Butcher’s legs, which settle on either side of him, close enough to warm him.

When he leans in to suck, as he’s bid, on Butcher’s cock, has it fed into his mouth, he realises exactly what position he’s in and why, can’t hold back the full body shudder that ripples through him at the thought. He bobs his head and his ass attempts futilely to clench, won’t fully close, his hole wet and open, probably pink and swollen, would look well-fucked and inviting to anybody who walked through that door.

Humiliated tears prick at his eyes and Butcher makes a breathy, aroused sound, wipes away the tracks with his thumbs. His cock twitches, pulses out pre-come onto Hughie’s tongue when he manages to make eye contact through wet lashes.

“You look so good, Hughie. You have no fucking idea what you do to me.”

Oh. That’s- so much more than Hughie had been expecting, and it warms him from the inside. When he blinks, tears drip down his cheeks and he can do nothing to stop them, can only bob his head to take Butcher’s cock deeper, to tease at the edge of his gag reflex before he pushes past it entirely, gags and chokes around the thick weight in his throat but doesn’t stop, presses his nose to Butcher’s stomach and then draws off as slowly as his burning lungs will allow.

“You’re perfect. And you know how you look, don’t you? So empty and open. Anyone could walk in right now, and they could take you, Hughie. You wouldn’t even stop them, would you? If it meant you could keep choking yourself on my cock and get that lovely hole of yours filled too.”

Hughie sobs. He’s so hard, his cock bobbing between his legs, aching and untouched, dripping with how long he’s been waiting. His hole clutches weakly at air and yes, he wants badly to be filled but not by anybody else. This time the plea in his eyes is answered, although not before Butcher guides his head down just once more, pushes into his throat and holds, only for an instant.

Then he draws Hughie up into his arms and guides his spit-slick cock to where Hughie needs it, lets him sink down, allows him to set the pace because he’s soft and open but even that isn’t enough lube, not quite, and every movement comes with a desperate, hot friction that sends arousal arcing up Hughie's spine in long, sweet waves.

It’s worth the wait, Butcher sliding in slow and relentless until he’s balls-deep and Hughie can taste him in the back of his throat. He feels shattered open, is only vaguely aware of anything else, of Butcher’s thumb stroking that familiar pattern across Hughie’s bottom lip, over the bruise he left there what feels like hours ago now.

Someone could still walk through that door at any moment and Hughie finds some sense of urgency, lifts himself up on trembling legs to feel more hot, silken steel slide through him, rolls his hips to grind hardness against the sensitive spot inside of him that he can’t reach on his own, sobs and clutches at Butcher’s shoulders when it’s just not enough, he can’t-

“It’s alright, Hughie, come on,” Butcher has never sounded quite so indulgent before, and he gathers Hughie up in his arms, holds him close, lifts him just a little and begins to roll his hips. He fucks into him in short, slow strokes, lighting up every single one of Hughie’s nerves. There’s no pain any more, just pleasure and heat and endorphins, Hughie panting out little involuntary cries with his cheek pressed against Butcher’s, his arms around strong shoulders.

Somehow, he drives down to meet those thrusts, feels more than he hears Butcher groan in response and clenches his ass as tight as he can manage because he wants it to be good for both of them and is rewarded with the graze of a kiss across his cheek, all they can manage in the quick, desperate friction that builds between them.

Hughie’s entire world has narrowed down to the two of them, and anybody could walk through the door at that moment and he wouldn’t have a fucking clue, wouldn’t care because nothing matters but the climax building at the base of his spine, driven by the stretch, the fullness, the solidity of strong thighs beneath his own and- fuck- he has to, can’t wait another moment, feels Butcher’s rhythm falter tellingly and knows he’s close. He can’t stand to finish without Butcher’s cock inside him, reaches down to wrap his hand around the head of his cock, to give himself just that last, perfect shove over the edge.

He comes with a cracked and broken sound, spurting over his fingers and Butcher’s heaving chest, vision nearly whiting out, Butcher slamming deeper for his last few thrusts before he follows with an animalistic growl that makes Hughie’s cock pulse weakly, a final time. He’s filled with come, that visceral sensation of liquid painting his insides making his ass squeeze instinctively. For the first time, he sees Butcher shudder with the intensity of it.

Working through aftershocks and coming down from his high, Hughie circles his hips idly, watches Butcher pant as he recovers, lifts his come-covered fingers to his own lips and licks just to hear the soft, wrecked sound Butcher makes in response before he kisses him, cleaning the taste from Hughie’s tongue. He’s so fucking hot. Hughie presses close and ignores the way come smears between their chests, wraps his arms around Butcher’s neck and holds on tight. Just for a little while.

“You alright?” Butcher asks him when they mutually part, and Hughie doesn’t know what he means until Butcher touches his cheek, tracing the track of tears that have dried there.

Oh. Hughie thinks he’s fine. He feels good, kind of cleansed, like his stress has melted away although it threatens to return when he realises he’s still naked on Butcher’s lap on the couch in a very communal area and the others have already been gone for too long.

So he nods, his smile small but genuine and returned, Butcher doing the same, steals a kiss before he begins to reluctantly disentangle himself. They’ve never exactly been ones to prolong and revel in the afterglow although the lingering touches, Butcher’s hands trailing over his limbs, warm him and make their parting feel like less of a wrench.

He gathers up his clothes and stumbles into the shower, casts a last lingering look in Butcher’s direction and receives a conspiratorial wink in response.

-

It’s important, Hughie knows, that he spends time with Annie. He’s trying to get information out of her, and he needs her to trust him, and to believe he’s on her side.

He doesn’t need to enjoy it, but he does. She’s smart and funny and kind and too pretty for him, everything anybody with any sense would want.

He wishes he could tell her about his life, that he could confide in her about all the crazy shit that’s happened to him recently but knows she’d immediately have him committed or arrested or worse.

Instead he settles for having fun, for keeping it light, for listening when she needs to tell somebody about all she’s been going through. She’s so far from home and Hughie wishes he could do more for her, wishes he could be the friend she deserves, but every time she mentions one of the Seven, he’s making a mental note for later.

He feels like he should be getting better by now, too, so it’s horrible to still be seeing Robin, to endlessly wonder what’s making her look at him that way.

Except she disappears when he gets swept up in a moment, when he wants so badly to have something he can call normal, something safe, that he forgets he’s pretending, and he kisses Annie. Twice. He makes a decision.

Hughie’s an anxious person. He naturally runs through all worst-case scenarios in his head so he’s prepared for them.

Nothing prepares him for seeing Butcher at that moment, for the look in his eyes that’s so much more than betrayal, for the knowledge that he might have ruined something that isn’t good and wholesome by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s still his. And it’s real.

-

Somehow, Hughie manages to get through the rest of the evening without letting on to Annie that Butcher’s little visit -all faux-politeness, ridiculous accent and sycophantic lies to her, blatant threats to him- has left him unsettled, anxious and fucking furious. She definitely noticed the tension between them, because nobody in that bar could possibly have missed it, but she says nothing. She lets him have his space. Unlike someone he fucking knows.

When he gets back, he storms into Butcher’s room without bothering to check if anybody’s watching, without worrying what they might think. Without caring that Butcher might be incredibly pissed by the breach to his privacy, even though he’s done far worse to Hughie.

He actually just looks up from where he’s been on his phone, stands when he sees how aggravated Hughie is, goes to speak but Hughie’s not going to give him a chance, needs to get the first word in for a change, snaps, “Are you fucking determined to blow my cover?”

“Not as fucking determined as you are to get her to blow you. You’re getting information out of her, Hughie. That’s all. This isn’t an opportunity for you to get fucking laid. There’s no way that girl can properly consent. You want to heap another traumatic sexual experience onto that girl’s plate?”

“Don’t pretend you’re fucking concerned about her!” Hughie snaps back but even before the words are out, he knows what it’s really about, and he falters. Butcher sees it, and he knows he’s right, he always fucking knows and Hughie is not in the mood. “I’m going out.”

“No you’re fucking not.”

“Try and stop me,” Hughie challenges, but Butcher raises an eyebrow and he’ll do it, Hughie knows, if he’s given the slightest hint that it’s okay, that it’s part of whatever the fuck they’re doing. As if nothing’s changed, after that.

Except Hughie’s traitorous cock stirs. He’s been conditioned to respond to that warning look, he thinks, at this point. It would be so easy to sink to his knees all over again and let Butcher take exactly what he wants. But this isn’t just a game. His freedom is not so easily given away.

He walks out, instead.

And he books a room at a hotel. And he asks if Annie will meet him there.


End file.
